You cut my face
from a magazine,
pulled tanner grass
in L.A.– how you
lose your sense
of color with nothing
but blue sky and sun
and sidewalk cigarette
stains, everyone dead
in their own way.


(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)



You are not
sad. It is the mirror
who is sad,
transparent and flat
holding first your eyes,
then body,
then the bathroom’s.
The way black mold
sneaks high
into ceiling, where
neither of you
will do anything
about it.


(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)